


For Life

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Chains, Figging, First Time Blow Jobs, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Object Penetration, Psychological Games, Spanking, Submission, Whipping, hole spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-07-29 14:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20083672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: There were many nights Valjean would spend on his knees on the cold stone floor in his empty house, weeping as his guilt caught up with him. In the mornings, he would put on the clothes and the smile of the mayor once more, becoming a different man until Javert’s eyes met his and he found his disguise melting away beneath the implacable gaze.All of that changed in the spring.





	For Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AliceBee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceBee/gifts).

“Some people simply are wicked; they will not change—thieves, murderers, criminals. And I think we both agree that your fine town will be better off without them.”

Javert’s smile widened even as Valjean’s smile faltered. For nearly a year now, Valjean had been forced to bear Javert’s proximity, and no day passed without Javert cornering him with his slow smiles and his insinuations.

There were days when the anguish grew so hot during the night that Valjean began to hastily assemble a bag. Other nights, he ended up on his knees before the fire above which the candlesticks gleamed, praying helplessly for a punishment that would put an end to this torment, even if it came at Javert’s own hands.

There were days, too, when a child smiled at Valjean, a widow pressed his hand in gratitude, when the sky stretched wide and blue above him and his past life seemed as insubstantial as the clouds racing across the sky above him.

Yet no matter how good life in Montreuil had become, every day he would have to face Javert again and find himself stripped naked by those unforgiving eyes.

“We do not disagree there, Javert.” Valjean forced himself to smile once more. “Still, it’s true that you haven’t found much crime in this town. There is work for everyone here. People can earn a living. Consequently, there is little of the misery that causes—”

“Tell that to the whores and the thieves that haunt the alleys at night. Where your honest folk earn a living, dishonest men will be drawn to take their money by force.”

Valjean fell silent, guilt welling up inside him. It was true that there was misery still, even in this town. The town was prosperous, in part thanks to his factory—but it wasn’t enough. People were suffering.

Javert slowly moistened his lips as he stared at him, and Valjean found his heart contract with the sudden, instinctive fear of a fox cornered by hounds.

“No,” Javert murmured as if he enjoyed the conversation, “you will find that some people won’t change. Put a criminal into a prosperous place like this…”

“What do you think such a man could do in a town like Montreuil?”

Javert laughed softly. “Find a position of power, if he’s smart. Hide in plain sight. Try to escape the hand of authority by assuming a position of authority.”

Valjean swallowed convulsively. “I believe that you are wrong, Javert,” he said after a moment, proud that his voice wasn’t shaking. “Not in this town.”

* * *

It wasn’t the first conversation they’d had on this topic, nor would it be the last. There were many nights Valjean would spend on his knees on the cold stone floor in his empty house, weeping as his guilt caught up with him. In the mornings, he would put on the clothes and the smile of the mayor once more, becoming a different man until Javert’s eyes met his and he found his disguise melting away beneath the implacable gaze.

All of that changed in the spring.

At first, Valjean wasn’t even aware that there had been a change. There’d been the matter of Fantine, which had proved Javert true, for now Valjean could see clearly that no matter how hard he tried, he could not leave his own wickedness behind. Even when he had tried to do good in this town, he had inadvertently done evil and caused more suffering.

The encounter with Fantine had upset Javert, but Valjean had paid little attention to Javert’s fury over having his authority undermined in front of the town.

Fantine was fading quickly, and Valjean’s entire attention now rested on making her final days as comfortable as possible. Two of the young women working in his factory turned out to have been her friends; from them Valjean heard the whole story. His first act was to send for Cosette, and when she arrived, Fantine’s pale face lit up with such joy that Valjean could barely remain upright beneath the weight of his guilt.

Fantine died peacefully in her sleep a night later, her two friends holding her hand as she passed.

There was a man who had long campaigned for M. Madeleine to be put forth for the appointment as mayor. Although he seemed to be a good and honest man who was never found among the idlers in the officers’ café, Valjean had taken care to keep his distance, all their interactions cordial but professional. This M. Robert owned many of the fields and small farms in the area. His family was an old one, his name well respected, and although he had married young, there had been no child.

M. Robert immediately agreed to take the child in, who was thin and trembling at any sound, but seemed to quickly develop an instinctive trust towards the man with his kind, open face and distinctive whiskers who’d knelt before her and wrapped her in a warm coat before lifting her into his carriage.

The preparations for the burial took up more of Valjean’s time and attention. He had barely taken note of the letter that informed him that Javert had gone to Paris on a matter concerning the Prefecture of Police, although he was glad to be rid of his penetrating eyes for once.

They did not meet again until several days had passed. Fantine had been buried, and Cosette had immediately taken to her new life on Robert’s small estate a two hour drive from Montreuil, where she had good food and a soft bed and all the attention of two people who had never had a young child to spoil before.

All that remained to Valjean was the gravestone that marked the place of Fantine’s burial, and the heavy weight of his guilt that seemed to squeeze the breath from him.

Once he had stolen from a child, who would have gone hungry for days because of him. This time, a woman had died, and he had robbed a child of her mother. How did one make amends for such a thing? He had thought to purge his guilt by relieving the misery of the people of Montreuil—but it was by doing so that he had caused even greater harm.

This was the mood Javert found him in when they first encountered each other again after Javert’s return.

* * *

“You haven’t asked about my travels, Monsieur le Maire.”

Javert’s smile was familiar—it was the smile Valjean had come to know in the prison hulks, the smile of a man who found pleasure in circling a helpless prey, in enforcing his authority with the help of chains and cudgel.

Valjean watched Javert for a long moment, his stomach dropping as he thought of the heaviness of the chains and the torment of the brutal work in the blinding sun. Even so, something within him almost wished that there were chains to bind him now. In Toulon, he’d barely had time to think. He’d acted on instinct alone, like any caged animal subjected to daily torments.

He hadn’t known then that freedom came with its own torments, that the light that had finally illuminated the darkness within him had made him mercilessly aware of his many failings. The conscience was a judge one could not escape, and it was more merciless than even Javert.

Valjean forced himself to smile blandly, although now, with Fantine dead, it seemed almost sacrilegious to keep up the act, to live the bourgeois life of M. Madeleine who deserved none of the respect the town showed him.

“I assume they were uneventful,” Valjean said, praying that Javert would leave him be without one of his customary speeches about the hidden wickedness of men.

“Indeed.” A knowing smile still played on Javert’s lips. The freedom with which he looked Valjean up and down seemed even more pronounced than usual. Was that not open derision on his lips?

But no—even if Javert suspected, there was no way...

“I had need of the Prefectures archives. Important information about a very old case. A man from the hulks—but of course, that will be of no interest to you.”

Valjean swallowed convulsively. “What were your findings?”

Still smiling, Javert tilted his head a little, idly stepping forward until they stood nearly shoulder against shoulder. Before them spread a meadow. Yellow buttercups were in bloom. Here and there, there was the occasional dot of blue cornflowers and purple bellflowers. In the distance, a wall of dark stones rose that circled the graveyard where Fantine had been buried.

Javert exhaled softly, as if he was amused by Valjean’s question. “Most disappointing—or delightful, depending on whom you might ask. A released man from the hulks whom I knew, a recidivist who stole from a child in Digne, whom I was curious about for various reasons...”

Valjean’s pulse was a roar in his own ears. He stared blindly at the meadow before him. “Yes?” he asked after a moment.

Javert chuckled, his voice intimately soft when he continued. “Arrested three years past, and dead for almost as many years now.”

“Then it seems your journey was in vain,” Valjean heard himself saying lightly.

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” Javert made an amused sound. “Still, I have been contemplating this question myself. If the man is dead, the case closed, then the Prefecture has no further interest in it.”

“Indeed. You will have time to dedicate yourself to the wickedness of Montreuil.”

Javert ignored him. He moved even closer, so that Valjean shivered instinctively when he spoke next, remembering the sensation of Javert’s breath against his nape when he had been chained in the hulks.

“Yet even if the Prefecture is satisfied, if one were to come across proof that the man is not dead after all, ought one not act regardless?”

Valjean felt a shiver run down his spine. He hunched his shoulders uncomfortably. “Surely you would have to follow the desires of your superiors in such a matter.”

“Indeed,” Javert said wryly. “That is what you would wish, isn’t it, _Monsieur le Maire_?”

Then Javert turned away, Valjean’s heart still beating rapidly, too relieved that Javert was gone to even feel insulted by the abruptness of his departure.

* * *

Valjean wasn’t certain what to make of the conversation. He mulled it over all evening. By the coming morning, he had decided that it had been a warning.

In fact, it turned out to be the first step of Javert’s game.

* * *

Valjean had not been sleeping well. He woke several times at night, choking on a cry stuck in his throat, feeling hands grab him and iron chains drag him down.

He’d tried to calm his racing heart by prayer, but in the light of his fireplace, the gleam of the silver candlesticks seemed unbearably bright. Finally, he grabbed hold of them and put them into the old knapsack.

In the morning, he took what money he had available and shoved it into the same bag. Then he hastily saddled his horse. He found a secluded spot in the forest and buried the bag, marking the spot with a large stone.

When he returned, he finally breathed more easily. Now there was nothing left in his home that could betray his past—even to Javert’s suspicious eyes. And no matter what Javert thought he knew, Javert’s own superiors at the Prefecture had closed the case of Jean Valjean long ago.

There was another moment of biting guilt at that thought—some other man had worn his chains, had taken his place, had died with Valjean’s sins weighing down on him. Valjean had not dared to ask Javert how the man had died, but he had not needed to. He knew well enough what the life and the hard labor in the hulks did to a man.

Valjean avoided his factory. At first, he tried to distract himself by taking a walk, but whenever he saw a man coming towards him, whenever a woman turned her gaze on him, the old terror would rise up inside him.

Did they know? If Javert knew, was it not possible that he’d shared his suspicions with others?

In the evening, he ignored his supper, staring at the darkness outside his window until he could no longer bear the roar of voices inside his head. He hastily pulled on his coat and then hurried through the streets of Montreuil, avoiding the marketplace with its brightly lit windows where people were gathered in the inns—avoiding also the darker, dirty alleys where men went for entertainment at night.

He had nearly made his way to the ramparts, the alley he was walking through dark and deserted, when something grabbed hold of the back of his coat and he found himself brutally pushed against a wall. The impact left him dazed. A moment later, a hand clenched over his mouth and nose, cutting off his air.

* * *

When Valjean came to again, everything was dark. His shoulders ached fiercely, his muscles screaming when he moved.

Someone had chained him by his arms while he’d been unconscious.

Dread pooled in his stomach. He remembered the last time he had been chained in such a way.

His throat was so dry that swallowing hurt. His tongue felt thick and swollen in his mouth. He tried to straighten to take some of his weight off his shoulders. At the motion, new pain shot through this burning muscles.

A small groan escaped him.

A moment later, there was another sound.

A flame flickered. Then a lamp was lit. After the darkness, Valjean’s eyes began tearing up so that he couldn’t make out more than an indistinct shape holding the lamp.

The person—his kidnapper, Valjean assumed—turned away and hung the lamp on the wall. Then he came closer.

When his face was revealed, Valjean was not surprised to see that it was Javert who came to stand in front of him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing—” he began, only for Javert to casually backhand him with enough force that Valjean could taste blood.

“You’ll be silent.” Javert’s eyes were alight with a deep excitement.

Valjean’s stomach twisted as he probed his lip with his tongue.

“Feels familiar, doesn’t it? Monsieur 24601?”

Javert laughed softly when Valjean winced.

“Yes. All of this is very familiar. Do you know how often I’ve dreamed of having you like this? Our beloved Monsieur le Maire—finally at my mercy. Revealed for the common criminal he is.”

“You’re wrong, Javert,” Valjean said hoarsely. He could hear the fear in his own voice, and Javert laughed again in response. “Didn’t you tell me yourself that your convict died long ago?”

“Someone died,” Javert murmured. “The Prefecture was satisfied with that. But do you truly think I could be satisfied with such a thing when I have you in front of me every day, staring at me so brazenly—flaunting your crime in front of all the world?”

Valjean swallowed, then shook his head, still feeling dizzy. “You’re wrong. You know who I am...”

“Am I?” Javert’s smile widened as he reached out. He brushed a finger against Valjean’s split lip. Then his hand moved down, his fingers twining around Valjean’s cravat, tightening the fabric until it felt as if Javert held him by a leash.

A moment later, Javert released him.

“You’ll soon learn not to lie to me. That will be the first lesson I’ll have to teach you, I think. Again. Who are you?”

It was difficult to breathe. Valjean’s lip still ached, his mouth filled with the iron tang of blood. When he remained silent, Javert leaned in.

Valjean shuddered, a different terror unfurling inside him when something wet and soft touched him.

Javert pulled back a heartbeat later, slowly licking Valjean’s blood from his lips.

“Who are you?” he asked again.

Valjean swallowed thickly. “Madeleine,” he said hoarsely. “You know me—”

This time, Javert’s fist connected with his stomach. For a moment he couldn’t breathe at the pain.

“You want to learn this lesson the hard way then. It’s what I expected.” Dimly, Valjean was aware of Javert moving around him as he laughed. “It’s what I prepared for.”

Valjean’s eyes had watered at the pain. By the time he could see clearly again, Javert had moved somewhere behind him.

The room, Valjean could now see, was mostly bare. It did not look so different to the guard room where he’d been tied up countless times in a similar way. 

The walls were gray stone. If there was a window, it had been bricked up, or perhaps it was a cellar.

Terror suddenly rushed through him—had Javert locked him up in jail?

He had avoided the town’s cells for all of his years in Montreuil—but no, surely that was impossible. There were windows in those cells; he had shuddered whenever he had seen the iron bars passing by.

“That you would still lie, even now… But of course, some people cannot speak the truth. I have never known a thief admit to his crime. Even in the hulks, these men find endless excuses for violence, theft, murder. And that is the sort of man you are, isn’t it? Everything you touch is wickedness, lies and deceit—despite your false words about goodness and charity.”

Valjean did not know how to reply to Javert’s words. For so long he had struggled to be good—but it was impossible to forget Fantine’s agony, that picture of wretchedness on the frozen square as she pleaded for her daughter.

Long ago, a child’s voice had hurled the same accusations as Javert at him. _You’re a dirty thief! A curse on you!_ Valjean could hear the words ringing in his ears even now and shuddered, turning his head away from Javert.

No, perhaps Javert was right. Perhaps he had been lying to himself all these years, content with the easy life and the success he had found in Montreuil. And meanwhile, what had happened to Petit-Gervais and Fantine?

Valjean squeezed his eyes shut. A moment later, he could feel hot breath against his cheek as Javert gripped his shirt.

“Let’s find out the truth, shall we?” Javert murmured.

With a shockingly loud sound, his shirt ripped as Javert tore the bleached linen. Valjean’s hands twisted in their bonds, but the chains held. His chest heaving, he could only endure it miserably as Javert leaned in once more, running a hand down his bare chest.

“I remember this,” Javert murmured. “Don’t you? I remember you—you stood out from the crowd from the first moment I saw you. Your brutal strength. Your straining muscles. I had my eyes on you. I’m sure you remember the moments we’ve spend just like this. Our conversations.”

Valjean swallowed against the sickness rising up in his stomach when Javert’s hand dropped even lower, pushing into his woolen trousers to wrap around him.

Javert laughed softly. “Yes, I remember this. I remember the size of it. I couldn’t keep my eyes off it whenever you stripped. When you were whipped. When you were washed. When you were released. The brutal masculinity of you. But do you know what fascinated me the most? The first time I saw you, I made inquiries with the guards. As strong as you are, they say you never fucked your chain mate. And no one fucked you. Nineteen years in the hulks, Valjean, and you never made anyone suck this cock for you? Is that really true?”

Valjean struggled again, although he fell still after a heartbeat—he already knew from their weight that there was no escape from these chains. His skin crawled as Javert’s fingers idly slid over his soft cock. There was a heat starting to build after a moment that sickened him; he tried to twist, but that only made Javert laugh breathlessly.

“To think that this is what you’ve been hiding beneath your disguise all these years...” Javert’s fingers found the head of Valjean’s cock and squeezed gently. “Now, once again. Who are you? All I have to do is pull that shirt from your back. You know that as well as I do. After these years of lies, I’m giving you a chance to finally speak the truth. Don’t you want that? Isn’t there a part of you even now that longs to confess all your sins?”

Valjean moaned in torment when he continued to harden at Javert’s fondling. Terror still made his heart race. It seemed impossible that he should be here when just a few days ago, Javert had been forced to bow to Valjean’s authority.

But then, that authority had been false—just as false as his hope to do good in this town. Instead, he had caused the death of a woman and the misery of a young child.

“Well, _Monsieur le Maire_? The truth now. Who are you?”

A broken sound escaped Valjean as he trembled in his chains, Javert working his hardening cock mercilessly.

Even now, wasn’t there hope that someone might find them? That someone would come in and interrupt Javert?

But it was too late for that. Even if the people of the town could be fooled, Valjean knew that he could no longer pretend to be a good man. He had tried to do good; he had worked so hard in the hope that it might eventually make up for his sins—but that hope had been as false as his name. He knew who he was in truth—just as Javert knew.

“Jean Valjean,” he finally whispered, hanging his head in surrender.

Javert shuddered against him, a soft moan escaping his lips. “Yes,” he breathed with deep satisfaction. “At last.”

He groaned deeply, his hand releasing Valjean. Slowly, he stepped around him. Valjean felt his heart hammering against his ribcage when Javert took hold of the shirt still hanging from his shoulders. Then Javert ripped the shirt from him, revealing his back.

“I knew,” Javert murmured after a long pause. “I knew from the moment I saw you again.”

Javert’s hand traced down Valjean’s back, his fingertips lingering on old scars. Against Valjean’s nape, his hot breath was like the panting of a hungry animal about to close its fangs around his throat.

Valjean couldn’t speak. What could he say? Even if he pleaded, Javert would show no mercy, he knew that. Soon enough, he would be back before a judge, and then returned to the hulks…

Javert kept breathing against his neck, his fingers slowly moving down his body, mapping his back possessively. At last, they came to settle on his buttocks. Valjean shifted uneasily, and Javert laughed into his ear. 

“I’ll confess if you bring me before the judge. I’ll confess it all.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Javert’s fingers curved lovingly around Valjean’s buttocks, his fingers squeezing in appreciation like a man examining a horse on market day. 

“Ah, you did not listen. I see. I’ll have to teach you better than that. Did you forget what I told you? To the law, Jean Valjean is dead. I cannot bring a dead man before a judge.”

Javert leaned further in until his lips brushed Valjean’s shoulder. Valjean could feel him smile against his skin. “Which means that it is up to me to see justice done in this case. And that’s how it should be, don’t you agree? I know you—better than any judge.”

His thumb traced towards the crease of Valjean’s buttocks, then slid into it. Valjean’s heart clenched in his chest when Javert’s fingertip deliberately brushed the rim of his hole.

“Please,” Valjean said hoarsely, and Javert laughed again.

“That’s an improvement on how you used to to talk to me. But it’ll take more than that to make up for five years. Five years you stole from the law.”

Valjean shivered when Javert stepped back. Javert remained behind him so that Valjean could not see him. A minute or two passed, then Javert chuckled again.

“I’ve waited for this a long time. And I think so have you.”

The distinctive sound of a length of leather hitting the floor as it was unrolled was all the warning Valjean received—but it was familiar enough to strike terror into his heart.

A heartbeat later, the whip fell down onto his back, and his terror at finding himself suddenly captured vanished together with the burning shame that had not left him for weeks. All that existed was pain—as bright and as sharp as a flash of lightning rending the sky.

Javert was skilled with the whip, even though he surely had not wielded it in years. Valjean strained against the chains as the leather bit into his skin—but the iron was as hard and merciless as Javert, keeping him helpless as Javert laid down strike after strike.

It felt as if Javert was flaying the skin from his back. Wetness began dripping down his back. Was it sweat or blood? Valjean could not tell. And then the whip came down again, agony burning so bright that his knees buckled at last and he cried out.

The leather fell down faster after that, as if Javert was intent not to leave a single inch of his skin untouched. Distantly, Valjean could hear his own groans. Eventually, they turned into broken sobs—and still the whip kept coming down until he was shaking uncontrollably, the muscles of his shoulder burning as badly as his back. His cries had turned into the sound of Javert’s name, a desperate, almost unintelligible plea even though he knew that Javert would show no mercy…

And then it ended.

He must have fainted when the whip finally stopped to fall, his mind fleeing from the agony of his beaten body. He came to when Javert poured a bucket of cold water over his back. From the burning pain and the sharp smell, it must have been laced with vinegar.

As he hung in his chains, Valjean began to sob softly once more. He couldn’t stop shaking. For a moment, he had forgotten where he was, who he had been. When Javert stepped around him to face him at last, Valjean found himself where he’d always been, as if he’d never left it: the prison hulks of Toulon, Javert before him master over life and death, Valjean no more than a number in the hell he lived in.

“I think you remember now.” Javert’s voice was breathless and full of heat. When Javert pressed himself against him, Valjean trembled but did not move back, although Javert had hardened. And when Javert’s mouth closed over his, hungry and hot, he submitted to that as well, more tears leaking from his eyes.

“That’s better, isn’t it?”

Valjean didn’t answer, but neither did he move when Javert’s hand reached down for him once more.

* * *

Valjean could not say what he had expected. To be returned to the hell of the hulks, most likely. To be thrown into a jail, dragged before a judge, certainly—or at the very least to suffer endless torment at Javert’s hands.

Instead, when he woke next after those hours of torture, he found himself alone, his abused body covered by his clothes once more. The shirt he wore was ripped open, which was the only proof he had that the past day had not merely been a nightmare he had woken from.

Dizzily, he stumbled through the empty streets of Montreuil, pulling his coat tight around himself. He did not know what had happened, how he’d come to be free. Had Javert left, forgetting that he had unchained him?

But Javert must have also clothed him...

To find himself suddenly free made as little sense as it had to find himself abruptly returned to his years of captivity.

It was so late that Valjean encountered no one as he stumbled through familiar alleys. Instinct led him back to his house, although he was half-filled with the certain terror that Javert would await him there.

But the house was silent and empty. There was a plate with bread and cheese and a bottle of wine on his table, as though his housekeeper had expected a late return after a long journey, as happened from time to time when events forced him to see to business in Arras or Paris.

That was strange as well, for Valjean had not planned to go on a journey. Was this what she had assumed when he had not returned home at his accustomed time?

Valjean knew that he needed to escape. Javert knew who he was. Javert might return with the handcuffs any moment now—but right now, Valjean was still free to take his sparse belongings and run.

With every step he took, his strength seemed to wane. By the time he reached his bedroom, he could barely hold himself upright. His back was on fire, his mind once more alight with the terror that had kept him alive for those nineteen years in the hulks. In every corner he thought that he saw the looming figure of Javert. Even now, he could feel hot breath ghosting across his skin, the finger that had slid so easily down the crease of his buttocks, threatening to take what no one else had ever taken.

He fell to his knees in front of the bed, weeping. His back ached relentlessly, and all of a sudden the urge to run seemed absurd. Where would he go? However many times he had thought to flee Toulon, they had always caught him. Every time he had run, they had beaten him—beaten him worse than this. If Javert hadn’t released him, then at least he would have been spared the torment of hoping for an escape, all the while knowing that with every step he took, he made the coming punishment worse.

* * *

Light filled the room when he woke, a gentle breeze making the curtain billow like a white cloud above him.

It took a while until Valjean could focus enough on his surroundings to realize that he was in his bed. For a long moment, he drifted on the pleasantly hazy feeling of knowing himself safe, at home.

Then he tried to move and the welts on his body began to burn once more, reminding him of what had happened.

Blearily, he forced himself to sit up, staring at the open window. Had it truly come to pass? It seemed impossible. 

His body ached with a particularly agony impossible to forget—but surely it couldn’t have happened. Not the way he remembered, at least. Javert would never have let him go. And had he escaped, then Javert would have hunted him down. Javert would have invaded his bedroom during the night to have him back in chains.

It was impossible that Javert should have chained and whipped him, and that he should be free now.

There was blood on the white sheets when he stood, but not as much as he had expected. Despite the pain of the whipping, his skin had only broken in two or three places. He hesitated for a long time before he moved to a mirror, but the glass revealed the truth to him at last: his back was covered in raised welts, a bright red against old scars that had faded to white.

He stared at himself, his stomach twisting. Outside, the town was beginning to wake. At the first sound of the water-carrier beginning to make his rounds, Valjean shuddered and hastily dressed, ignoring the pain of the welts as he pulled on a shirt.

He was pale when he stared back into the mirror at last, his eyes bloodshot. He looked like a man who had not slept.

Still, with the clothes hiding his beaten body, a measure of normalcy had returned. It was not Jean Valjean the convict staring back at him—it was the mayor of Montreuil, Madeleine.

* * *

“Good morning,” his housekeeper greeted him when he made his way down at last. “You have not eaten. Did you come back very late?”

She gave the plate where the bread and cheese still rested an accusing look.

“Oh, and Inspector Javert came by, sir.”

“Javert?” Valjean’s heart began racing with terror once more. Had Javert realized at last that Valjean had escaped? Did the town already know?

But no... surely Valjean would have woken to chains in that case.

“When did he come? What did he want?”

“Oh, an hour past. I did not want to wake you, not after that exhausting journey you had. He said he had only come to remind you that you had promised to talk with him about the state of the gutters in the Rue Montre-de-Champigny.”

“The Rue Montre-de-Champigny,” Valjean repeated faintly.

An hour past... Then Javert knew that Valjean had escaped? But no—how could he want to talk about the state of gutters after what had happened? Had the past night been a fever dream after all?

“Sir, perhaps you should rest—to go on such a journey, and with no warning! You must have been on that horse with barely a break. You look very tired.” She placed a cup of coffee on the table. “I’ll send a message to that Javert that you won’t—”

“No,” Valjean said, with more force than he had intended.

When she raised her brows at him, Valjean found himself flushing with shame.

“No,” he repeated more softly. “Thank you for your concern, but I will... There’s lots to be done.”

“And none of it will be done if you work yourself to death,” she muttered under her breath as she went to fetch him the loaf of fresh bread and yellow butter he habitually had for breakfast.

* * *

Valjean found himself retracing familiar steps he took every day, settling down in his office at the back of the factory where the day’s letters awaited him, as they did every morning. Soon enough, the factory filled with noise as his workers arrived.

Valjean usually enjoyed that time of day: the hour of quiet to go through his correspondence and his books, the way the factory slowly became alive, the distant chatter and the hum of voices to keep him company while he remained at his office in the back.

Today, it felt as if he had stepped from one dream into another. Every time someone glanced towards his office, he felt his stomach twisting, convinced that the whole town was playing a sick game with him. Surely Javert would have spread the news. Surely everyone knew. Were they all waiting for him to break at last?

But as the hours passed, the day unfurled as had so many other days. There were messages, deliveries, orders. Every time he glanced at the clock, it seemed to tick faster. He dimly remembered that he had told Javert to come at two in the afternoon, when most of Madeleine’s work of organizing the daily business of running a factory was done, so that they could talk about the problem posed by the gutters in the Rue Montre-de-Champigny which went against regulations.

Again he glanced at the clock. It was noon; the workers took a break to eat, filing out of the factory to sit in the sunny courtyard.

Valjean alone remained behind, his heart beating faster and faster. What if Javert came early? What if Javert had timed it so that they would be alone together?

Worse—what if this was indeed a game; what if the past night had not been a nightmare, and Javert was simply biding his time to arrest him at last in full view of all the workers of his factory?

It was one o’clock; the bell of Saint-Saulve was ringing. Valjean’s throat was so tight that he couldn’t breathe. The workers had returned, the factory once more filled by the sounds of their work and their chatter.

Helplessly, he rose to walk away from his desk. He went towards a window in the corner of his office, from where he could not be seen from the factory. He leaned against the glass, gasping for air as he tugged at his cravat.

Was this all just a game? Would it not be easier to put an end to all of this, to go to Arras or to the Prefecture in Paris and hand himself over?

Or perhaps nothing had happened last night. Maybe he had been robbed and beaten until he lost consciousness, and when he woke again, his mind had substituted a more familiar torment for what had come to pass.

And yet he had seen the welts on his back. He had been beaten with a whip. What thief would go to such lengths? And then, nothing had been stolen. His shirt had been ripped; that was all.

At two o’clock, he was back at his desk, his hands clenched around a ledger to keep them from trembling. Beneath his coat, his shirt was soaked with sweat. The welts burned. He need only close his eyes and even the soft conversations of the workers fell away to be replaced by the grunts of his fellow prisoners and the heat of Javert’s eyes as they bored into his, all the way across the yard where he was forced to kneel. He remembered the coarse fabric against his skin, the glare of the sun, the terror of the other men as the guards aimed their rifles.

There was a sudden, loud sound resounding like a shot.

Valjean flinched, a groan trying to escape his chest.

When he opened his eyes, he saw that the door to the factory had opened and closed and admitted a man. Terror rose up in Valjean so powerfully that for a moment, he thought himself trapped in a nightmare again. The factory receded, the chatter of the workers fell silent.

All that remained was the heavy sound of boots on the factory floor as slowly, Javert advanced towards him, his eyes gleaming in the shadow beneath his hat.

Valjean found himself frozen in place. He could not lift even a single finger as Javert came closer and closer. And then Javert stopped and took off his hat and smiled.

“Monsieur le Maire.” A muscle in Javert’s cheek twitched with brief amusement. “I hope you’re well.”

Valjean swallowed, then drew in a shaky breath.

Javert’s smile widened. “I’m not interrupting, I hope? There’s the matter of those gutters—I can return tomorrow, of course. It’s hardly a matter of life and death.”

“No, I am... I am well,” Valjean said weakly. Beneath the desk, his fingers dug into his thighs. Sweat was running down his back once more, the welts burning fiercely.

How was this possible? Javert acted as if nothing had happened. Had it truly only been a nightmare then? But where had the marks on his body come from?

“Stay. Please, say what you’ve come to say.”

“There have been complaints, as you know,” Javert said curtly. “Made by M. Charcellay. I have looked into the matter, and according to regulations, something needs to be done about those gutters.”

“Who owns those houses?” Valjean asked weakly, although he knew it well enough.

Javert rattled off the names briskly. There was still a slight smile on his lips—but had not Javert always watched him so, whenever he had come into the factory?

Valjean could barely focus on Javert’s explanations about what had to be done to restore the street to regulations, but there was no need to do more than occasionally nod. Javert had looked into the matter and come up with a solution. All Valjean had to do was agree.

When he did so, Javert smiled again, that fleeting smile that never reached his eyes. Even now, his eyes seemed heavy with an accusation that made Valjean shift uneasily in his chair until the welts on his back flared up into new agony.

“Then I thank you for your time, monsieur,” Javert said. Just like that, he turned and left, the sound of his boots growing softer until at last, the door at the end of the factory opened and closed behind him once more.

Valjean sat upright at his desk, fingers clenched around the wood, staring at the door without truly seeing it. Little by little, the sounds of the factory seemed to grow louder around him again, the nightmare receding until the bright daylight and the factory’s routines filled the room once more.

Had it all been a dream? Surely it had to be. If Javert truly knew, if Javert had chained him, he would have never let him go. Not Javert.

***

Three days passed without further events. The pain of the welts began to fade. When Valjean looked at his back in the mirror, it seemed impossible that Javert should have whipped him.

Someone had attacked him—but even that seemed more and more improbable now the more time passed.

* * *

It was Sunday when Valjean went into the empty factory. In the morning, he had gone to Mass. Upon leaving, he had seen that Robert had also attended—by his side a thin girl with wide eyes, wearing a simple, clean dress of black linen and a bonnet of black velvet adorned with white lace. The girl had pressed fearfully against his side when Valjean had looked at them, and the sight of it had so shaken Valjean that he had all but run from the steps of Saint-Saulve.

The girl seemed well cared for—and then, he knew Robert. She would grow up loved, lacking nothing. But it was Valjean who had caused her mother’s death. Valjean who had callously dismissed Fantine, here from this very desk he was seated at now.

Not only that—he was a convict, a thief, a man who had robbed a child. He needed to keep away from her, or he might cause her even more harm.

_Thief,_ Petit-Gervais’ voice more echoed through the empty hall of the factory. _Monster!_

Valjean’s shoulders shook as he buried his face in his hands. The sobs that shook his body brought him no relief; the more he wept, the tighter his chest, until he could barely inhale. The air was close and stifling, smelling of dust and the emptiness of large spaces usually filled with voices.

But today, there was no sound to be heard but that of his choked breathing. The silence seemed to tighten around him until he thought himself bound in chains once more, the hammering of his heart echoing in his ears, louder and louder.

Finally, from the corner of his eye, he thought that he’d seen a movement. He looked up in terror, half-expecting Javert to have hidden himself in a corner—but there was nothing to see there but the small desk holding a left-over sample of imitation jet and a pitcher of water.

Valjean exhaled, forcing himself to relax his aching shoulders. A shadow of a passing cloud outside, perhaps—or maybe a mouse.

Javert had not changed his behavior towards him at all during the past few days. Whatever had happened that night, it had not involved Javert. It was simply his own mind playing tricks on him.

He raised a hand to his eyes, tiredly wiping at his tears as he straightened in his chair. When his gaze fell across the desk once more, Javert was standing there.

Valjean couldn’t speak. He could taste bile at the back of his throat. His heart was beating against his ribs, his pulse a roar in his ears.

Then Javert smiled, his tongue coming out to moisten his lips as he stared at Valjean.

“Working late again?” he asked. “_Monsieur 24601_?”

Valjean’s throat closed in terror. Images flashed before his eyes. The cold room of gray stone. Javert smiling at him as he ripped his shirt. Javert’s fingers fondling his cock. The whip tearing into his back. The whip coming down again and again and again until he’d sobbed Javert’s name.

_The whip in Javert’s hand._

“Stand.” The word fell as sharp as the whip.

Valjean found himself on his feet before the word had even registered, old instincts resurfacing at last, his body little more than a tool following every order shouted at it by a guard. He panted for breath, his terror rising to an even higher level as he had to force himself to raise his head and look at Javert.

Javert wasn’t wearing the uniform of the guards. Nevertheless, at that moment, even if Valjean had held a gun, he would have found it impossible to oppose Javert. That was a lesson he had learned quickly in those first few days—as had any man who lived for more than a few weeks in the hulks. A man’s life was worth less than that of a dog. And a man who raised his hand against a guard...

Javert stepped around the desk. Valjean could not retreat, not with the desk in the way. When Javert’s hand fell to his trousers, Valjean didn’t resist.

“There. Look at you,” Javert murmured when he held him in his hand. He stroked him, and Valjean had to bite back a sob when Javert’s eager hand forced him to harden. “That’s how I wanted to see you in the hulks. Do you remember the way you stared at me with those insolent eyes of yours?”

Every beat of his heart was like the stab of a knife in his chest. Valjean struggled for breath even as his cock grew to full hardness in Javert’s hand.

Javert’s other hand grabbed hold of his cravat, gripping tightly as it pulled his head close. Then Javert’s lips were on his again, his tongue thrusting lewdly into Valjean’s mouth as Javert moaned.

Valjean shivered. When Javert’s hand squeezed the head of his cock once more, Valjean’s body shook with a sudden release that left him feeling drained and hollow.

A moment later, he found himself across his desk, Javert’s slick hand sliding between his buttocks.

“I’ve wanted this for a long time.” Two fingers rubbed against Valjean’s hole. His body tightened in terror, but they slid in regardless. “Hold still or you’ll regret it.”

Javert nudged his legs wide apart. His fingers slipped from his body.

Valjean shivered at the sensation of cold air against his naked body. Then Javert’s fingers returned, lightly pressing against the rim of his hole. Slowly, a finger slipped inside as Valjean groaned, pressing in deep. When a second followed, the pressure increased, a strange, warm feeling of fullness that made something in his stomach tighten.

Then the fingers pulled out again, teasing at the rim.

Suddenly Valjean became aware of how exposed he was. Had he locked the door to the factory?

“Please, Javert… Someone might come in.”

“Then they’ll finally see you for what you truly are,” Javert said. “Isn’t that right?”

A moment later, Javert’s hand retreated. The traces of his own semen felt slick and cold against Valjean’s skin. With Javert still standing between his legs, Valjean could not close them, shivering at how vulnerable he felt.

Without warning, Javert grabbed hold of his hands. Handcuffs clicked into place. Valjean twisted, but he already knew that it was impossible to break free from the cuffs.

“Will you hold still now?” Javert murmured. His hand fondled the inside of Valjean’s thigh. It moved higher, squeezing his buttocks again, then spreading them apart. Valjean felt his hole clench desperately as it was exposed once more, and Javert laughed softly.

When the sound of Javert opening his trousers followed, Valjean’s heart began to race, hammering against the hard wood of the desk beneath him. Javert was strangely hot as he slid against his thigh, his length as hard as iron. When the head of it prodded against his opening, Valjean groaned in fear, although he did not dare to struggle.

Then Javert pushed in. The full size of him was a stretch much harder to bear than his fingers. The ache of it drove tears to Valjean’s eyes, but worse was the relentless penetration, Javert spreading him open and sliding deep inside, taking possession of him while Valjean could only tremble around him.

Javert’s fingers dug deep into his hips as he pulled out a little, only to thrust even deeper into him. The sensation forced a gasp from Valjean, his body clenching around Javert, the pressure agonizing—but beneath the humiliation of it, there was a thread of warmth. With every thrust, that warmth built—and Valjean could only lie there and take it, his hole clenching tightly around Javert but unable to stop the violation.

When Javert came inside him at last, Valjean realized dimly that he was moaning, his hardened cock squeezed painfully beneath his stomach and the desk. A warm trickle of Javert’s seed ran down his thigh as Javert pulled out. Valjean’s hands flexed weakly against the cuffs again, but he offered no other resistance.

The wood beneath his cheek was wet. His face had come to rest on one of the letters; he could see now that the ink had been smudged, the paper damp from his tears.

He didn’t move even when the cuffs were finally opened. Javert must have straightened his clothes silently; through his tears, Valjean did not even hear him leave. It was the sound of the distant door closing that finally made him rouse.

His body ached when he cleaned himself, a dull, warm ache inside where Javert had spilled himself. His hands trembling, he returned to his desk and began to mechanically copy the smudged letter.

Before he was finished, the words before him began to blur once more as new tears fell.

* * *

He should have run. He tried to.

He did not make it farther on the road out of Montreuil than to the lonely graveyard on the hill where Fantine was buried.

* * *

“I thought I would have to hunt you down. I thought you’d run.” Javert’s fingers touched his hole almost delicately. “I was looking forward to hunting you down. But you’ve realized that there are some things you can’t run from, I think.”

It was late. The workers had long since left. It was close to midnight; Valjean had only returned to the factory because the emptiness of his home made him tremble.

He never knew how Javert knew so well where to find him; in the end, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Javert did, without fail, in the month that had passed.

“If you’d run,” Javert murmured in a caressing whisper, “I would have chained you again. I would have whipped you.”

Javert’s finger teased around the swollen rim of his spread hole. Inside, there was a heavy length of wood. Unlike the warm sensation of Javert’s cock spreading him open, the wood was cool and rigid; Valjean’s body had to bend to its demands. Unstoppable, it slid in deeper than Javert ever had. Javert’s hand rested on the small on his back, the wooden length inhuman and merciless as it slid in and out until his hole stopped clenching around it in protest, allowing Javert to penetrate as deeply as he wanted while Valjean laid there over his own desk, trembling.

Valjean shifted a little, his hips moving by instinct, and the hard wood slid in even deeper, a groan breaking free from him.

Javert stroked his thigh with appreciation. Valjean could hear that same appreciation in his voice as he spoke.

“I should just leave you here for them to find you like this.”

Javert’s hands returned to his buttocks, pulling his cheeks further apart. Against his thigh, he could feel Javert’s own hardness, still clothed by his trousers. Javert had not indulged himself yet, and for a moment, Valjean’s hole tightened hungrily around the hard length of wood at the thought that Javert might pull out whatever had penetrated him to use him himself. At least in Javert’s possession of him there was something human he could surrender to.

Then Javert laughed. A moment later, his hand came down.

Valjean gasped at the first slap, which fell with enough force to leave a mark. The sting of it caused him to clench around the object penetrating him, the friction of the unyielding wood making him arch with terrible need. Then Javert’s hand fell again until his buttocks burned and his hole felt sore and raw, still spread wide open around the implement inside him.

When Javert at last pulled it out Valjean could feel himself gaping open hungrily, available for whatever Javert might choose to do to him. One of Javert’s hands dug into his buttocks, holding him spread. Then Javert’s hand came down again right onto his exposed hole, punishing him with hard, short slaps that fell right onto the sensitive skin of his violated entrance.

Valjean sobbed as the pain exploded through him—but although it was enough to make him squirm on the desk he didn’t dare to try and escape Javert. Valjean was still weeping when the blows ceased, his cock aching fiercely, squashed between his stomach and the desk.

Then Javert left, and Valjean found himself all alone in his factory once more, his aching backside exposed to the chill of the air, his body hungry and empty even now.

* * *

Javert had not come in a week. Every time there was a sound in the empty factory, a tree branch moving in the corner of Valjean’s eye as he wandered the town at night, Valjean started, his heart racing with fear.

At first, it had seemed like something to be grateful for: a moment of reprieve for his aching body, days he could spend at his desk without his buttocks reddened from Javert’s hand or his hole sore from Javert’s relentless demands.

Now, Valjean realized that the absence of what he knew to be Javert’s true self was even worse. To breathlessly wait to be cornered once more, to know that there would be more torment and yet to be unaware of when it might come...

Valjean had not slept in days. Earlier, there had been a noise: a branch had been knocking against a window. It had set Valjean’s heart to racing, and whenever he closed his eyes, he saw a vision of Javert standing above him.

Why had Javert left him alone these many days? Had Javert changed his mind; was he going to surrender him to the Prefecture after all?

Valjean trembled,already feeling Javert’s hot breath against his nape. When he slid from his bed to kneel on the cold floor to pray, his body would not let him have that comfort either. His prick curved against his stomach, heavy with blood, his stomach tight with dread and the memory of Javert’s hands on him.

He wrapped his hand around himself at last, gripping punishingly tight; it wrung a miserable sound from him. It wasn’t until he slid two fingers into himself, shuddering convulsively as he thought of Javert’s eyes on him, full of judgment, that he found a sudden, hot release, his shame soaking his nightshirt.

* * *

The mayor of Arras had a daughter who had recently married a man of Montreuil. Valjean had not expected a visitor; the mayor, or so he claimed, had seen that there was still a light in the factory and had not wanted to leave before paying his respects to his esteemed colleague.

In surprise, Valjean had risen from his desk where he had been bent over his books to greet him. Now, as he led him through the factory, the magistrate revealed the true purpose of his intrusion.

“Just one of your jet trinkets—with your factory having risen to such fame, my wife claims it is unforgivable that she, the wife of a magistrate, should not have some of your famed beads, and I happen to agree.”

Valjean smiled. Beneath his shirt, sweat ran down his back. As he leaned over a chest of drawers to retrieve the samples he kept around for such occasions, he could feel the warm trickle of semen down his thigh. His hole was burning; even so, it clenched instinctively, and Valjean could barely hold back a groan. There was a finger of ginger inside him which burned, his hole hot and raw where it had been spread around the peeled ginger ever since Javert made him open for it, a mere ten minutes before the mayor of Arras strolled in.

“I hope I did not interrupt your conversation with your chief of police?”

“It was an unimportant matter,” Valjean said, “and in any case, we had already decided to postpone the discussion.”

Glad to change the subject, he took hold of a necklace made of the black beads of fake jet, the centerpiece a small locket. Inside him, the ginger burned fiercely, his insides feeling red and tender, as if Javert were possessing him even now. His cock was aching beneath his coat—but it, too, knew that neither of them could escape Javert’s hand.

Had Javert known that the mayor of Arras was in town?

It didn’t matter, Valjean decided at last. Had Javert wanted to show off Valjean’s shame, he could have done so.

“He must do good work,” the mayor of Montreuil said. “I’m impressed, truly. My daughter tells me how your town prospers—and how peaceful it is.”

Valjean tried desperately to calm his breath as the stinging juices of the ginger bit into his tender flesh, leaving him aching for something, _anything_, to ease the burning intrusion.

“Indeed,” he managed to force out, trembling even now at the thought that perhaps the magistrate already knew. “I appreciate his tireless devotion to his work.”

Javert left him trembling just so for another hour after the mayor of Arras had left with his new necklace. When Javert returned at last to bend Valjean over his desk, Valjean surrendered almost gratefully, his swollen hole so tight around the finger’s length of ginger that Javert breathed hot and eager against his ear as he withdrew it, only to slide his own erection in without further preparation. Valjean’s release spilled all over the documents on his desk, but even then he couldn’t stop squirming, his hole burning fiercely until at last Javert’s own hot release soothed the stinging within him.

* * *

One day when autumn neared its end Valjean prayed, more fervent than ever. His buttocks ached with the stripes Javert had laid across them, but still he knelt on the stone floor for a long time.

When he rose, his stomach still twisting with the fearful longing to give himself over to Javert and bring it all to an end, he took a decisive step towards the door instead. It was not far to the place in the forest where he had buried the candlesticks and the money earlier in the year. Javert might have promised to hunt him down—but there were places even Javert couldn’t reach.

It wasn’t far to the border. Or he could go to England. He had a name people respected and he had money; he would be far gone before Javert had informed the state about his true identity.

Valjean set out at a brisk pace, feeling as if a fever had taken hold of him, his head swimming with images of a wide, blue sky, of forests where he could never be found, of heavy doors he could lock behind him. By the time he had made it past the ramparts, his steps had slowed. His chest was aching; he felt certain that even now, Javert had to be hidden somewhere, watching his every step. At any moment, Javert could appear from behind a tree.

He shivered instinctively as his gaze went to a nearby oak. The leaves rustled in the wind. The path before him stretched away into the distance past harvested fields.

He thought of the empty room of stone and the chain. He thought of the whip in Javert’s hand and his stomach twisted. Then, as if his thoughts had conjured them, he became aware of something moving in the distance.

It was a carriage, he noted with some relief a moment later. It was not Javert on his bay stallion but a horse of dappled white before a carriage. In that carriage, two people were sitting.

They were too far away to make them out clearly, but Valjean did not need to see their faces. The road they traveled split from the one he was on. It took a turn to the right—and there, eventually, it would curve around the hill with the old graveyard, where withered stones stood beneath silent trees.

There was a man and a child in that carriage. Both were dressed in black.

Valjean watched until they had vanished into the distance. He tried to take a step forward, but he found his body would not move. The roar within his head increased until he had to squeeze his eyes shut, his nails digging into his palm until he could feel the warm wetness of blood—and even then there was still a voice echoing in his head and the sobbing of a young boy that could never be silenced.

* * *

It was late when Valjean made his way home. For the past few days, the first storm of winter had swept through the town, bringing with it a biting chill and a dampness that crawled into every hut and house. Decaying leaves rustled beneath his feet with every step. These days, Valjean always stayed at the factory long after everyone else had gone home, ignoring concerned questions until he was given the solitude he simultaneously craved and feared.

Javert had not come to him in several days, and those times were always a torment of their own, his mind conjuring Javert’s figure looming in empty corners, sleep evading him until the sun began to rise.

However much he feared Javert’s touch, there was a relief in surrendering himself to the torment. This was a lesson he had learned late in life: the whip could be a gentler companion than the emptiness inside him.

Valjean’s house stood silent and empty. His housekeeper had given up scolding him; she no longer had a hot meal waiting for him at the end of the day. Instead, as he had requested, there would be bread and cheese awaiting him—and even that he could not bear to touch on days like this.

He took off his sodden coat when he entered and hung it by the door. His steps echoed in the empty house as he slowly made his way inside. He ignored the table and the plate there, his stomach twisting in horror at the empty bed that awaited upstairs, the dark room filled with the specter of Javert that was so much harder to bear than the touch of Javert’s hands.

He stopped in the center of the room. The fireplace was dark.

He could start a fire and warm himself. He could take off the wet clothes, wrap himself in a warm blanket and sit in his chair by the fire with a book. On some nights, with the rain drumming against the windows, his mind would slide into a welcome state of quietness. Sometimes, he would even be able to find sleep like that, waking with the book forgotten on his lap.

Today, even the effort of lighting the fire seemed too much. For a long moment he remained standing in the silent room, the heaviness on his shoulders increasing until he thought that all he’d have to do was to remain standing here to be crushed by it.

It was difficult to breathe under the weight atop him. Eventually he shuffled forward. The fire would help. And with it, there was at least the hope of an hour or two of rest.

It wasn’t until Valjean had lighted the fire that he realized with sudden terror that he wasn’t alone.

In the quietness of the empty room, there was the sound of someone breathing. When he looked up from the fire, he saw that Javert was sitting in his chair.

How long had he been sitting there?

Valjean’s chest constricted. He was suddenly certain that Javert had been sitting there for a long time, watching his every move. Waiting for him.

Valjean swallowed. Despite the warmth from the fire he had kindled, he felt frozen with cold.

From the shadows, Javert watched him without saying a word. There was a smile on his lips, as if he knew what Valjean had been thinking.

Valjean suddenly became aware of the hot pulse of his own blood between his legs. His throat dry, he looked at Javert, who watched him with that same smiling arrogance he had shown him from the start. And it was true: Javert had always known where he was. Javert had always known where to find him.

Javert’s hand went to the fastenings of his trousers. Valjean watched, fearful and longing. Then he fell to his knees.

There was a strange clarity in his head as he crawled towards Javert. Inside his head, there was silence. His body was still shaking—but the fear was a familiar companion. _This_ fear, at least, was easier to bear than those uncounted days he had trembled in empty rooms, hearing the long-ago sobs of a boy, feeling the heavy gaze of a man who was not even there.

To have Javert gaze at him in this room was preferable by far. To give himself into Javert’s hands had always been a simple thing. Once the first step was done, the torment ceased; the torment that followed at Javert’s hand was of a different kind, the easy clarity of it something, perhaps, to be grateful for, for a man like him.

Javert’s cock jutted up straight when Valjean reached him, firm with blood. Javert had given no commands, but it was easy to see what had to be done.

Valjean had not done this before, but he took Javert into his mouth without hesitation.

Javert’s smile widened at that. He relaxed in his chair, moaning in approval. His hand touched Valjean’s face, the command clear—_keep your eyes on me_, it said, and Valjean obeyed even as he flushed, struggling under Javert’s knowing look to take more of him into his mouth.

Javert was hot and salty on his tongue—the taste of blood, of tears, now filling his mouth so deeply that it seemed impossible to think that the proud length had spread open his body so often.

Belatedly, Valjean realized that he was weeping again. Saliva was dripping from his lips. In his mouth, Javert felt strangely alive, his cock pulsing with blood. Then Javert’s finger came to trace around his spread lips and Valjean moaned, his body still aching with that helpless emptiness.

When Javert came, it was with a rush of bitter heat that dripped from Valjean’s lips as he tried desperately to swallow around Javert. Javert’s hand had tightened in his hair, pulling it free from the ribbon; when Valjean was finally released, his lips bruised and swollen, the strands settled around his face.

Valjean was still watching Javert. Stunned, he licked his bruised lips. His own cock was hard, as it was so often when Javert took command of him, but he was exhausted from the many days of anguish. Whatever else might come now, he had no control over it. All he could do was surrender himself to Javert.

It was enough.

Slowly, deliberately, Javert put himself away again and straightened his clothes. Then he reached out once more. His finger drew along Valjean’s lip, then slipped into Valjean’s mouth, bringing with it a drop of his seed. When it slid out, Valjean swallowed the residual bitterness.

Javert’s hand moved to Valjean’s cravat. Slowly, Javert pulled it free. He wound it around his hand as he gazed at Valjean, looking for all the world like a man idly contemplating which dish to choose at dinner or which shirt to order from his tailor.

At last, he wound the cravat around Valjean’s face, passing it through Valjean’s mouth. Javert tied it so tightly that it dug into the sensitive corners of Valjean’s mouth. Valjean panted but did not make a sound as he watched Javert, his heart still racing with the old terror even as his swollen cock chafed against his trousers.

Javert smiled when his work was done. “I think,” he said, his hand resting heavily against Valjean’s nape, “it is time you sold this house. Don’t you agree?”

Valjean shuddered, his tongue pressing against the fabric in his mouth as he thought of the empty, silent room of gray stone. Of the chains within.

When he swallowed, he could taste Javert, his throat still coated with his bitter seed. It was a heavy, earthy taste.

Somewhere within him, something was crying out for the clear, blue skies that awaited somewhere—but he already knew that there was no escape, no ocean wide enough to carry him away from the weight upon his shoulders. At last, Valjean bent his head in surrender, shuddering in terror at the unknown that was to come.

“I told you that next time, it would be for life.”

Even now, with his heart beating fast in his chest and his mouth aching from Javert’s use, his body tensed helplessly at the sensation of Javert’s breath against his ear.

Perhaps there had been a chance of escape once. Perhaps if he’d run, at the beginning…

But there was no escape now. Not for him.

He closed his eyes, a despairing sob shaking him. Between his legs, his cock still ached with need.


End file.
